


Low-Hanging Fruit

by Catzgirl



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Grindr, M/M, arby's as foreplay, guess what dynamic fucking duo is back on their bullshit, it's a whole thing alright, listen, you already know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 09:36:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14376039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catzgirl/pseuds/Catzgirl
Summary: Caleb's night of Netflix and Fast Food becomes more when the postmates guy is a familiar face.





	Low-Hanging Fruit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losebetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/gifts).



> AO3 and tumblr user @LoseBetter asked me who in the M9 is the person that flaked on their grindr hookup who is now their postmates delivery guy, so I wrote 6k words about it.

One thing the doctors never say about photographic memories: the older Caleb gets and the more memory he has, the more time it takes for shit to click. For example: the information for his delivery driver. He knows that number. It pricks in his mind, something warm and low in his gut, so he's able to narrow it down to a good memory as he taps 'accept' and confirms his order. 

A good memory that involves a phone number; what the fuck could that be? It's not listed in his contacts—not even sure why he checks, there's only fifty in total—and why would he know a phone number that's not in his contacts? Caleb checks again, pulls the webpage back up to review:  _Your driver, Fjord, is awaiting pick up! Call at—_ and he knows that number. 

He just isn't sure from where. 

The laptop screen is glaringly bright in his dark apartment, so he flips it closed. The plan for the evening is curly fries and a  _Downto_ _n Abbey_ marathon, maybe get his insomnia to abate a bit. But now that there's something prickling in his head, he knows sleep won't find him until he figures it out. 

 _Fjord_ , he thinks,  _Fjord with a local area code_. 

Netflix is still loading on his tv screen when he stands so suddenly that Frumpkin goes flying out of his lap. "No," he says aloud to the empty room, "The world is not cruel," but he fishes his phone out of the couch cushions anyway to check. 

The world is exactly cruel enough, the evidence shows. 

 

 

> **F** **ordFiesta** **:**  You lookin for just a one-night thing? Or something more substantial?   
>  **Caleb:**  Which would be more to your leanings?   
>  **F** **ordFiesta** **:**  Darlin I'll lean which ever way the wind blows.   
>  **F** **ordFiesta** **:**  I'm a simple sorta man in that regard   
>  **Caleb:**  In what regards are you more complicated?   
>  **FordFiesta** **:**  Gimme the chance to show you   
>  **Caleb:**  Really? You haven't even given me your real name.   
>  **FordFiesta** **:**  Social media's burned me once, not keen on giving every fella in the tristate the ammunition to do it again   
>  **FordFiesta** **:**  How about I give you my real phone number and you give me a call?   
>  **Caleb:**  A bit presumptuous of you.   
>  **Caleb:**  You're lucky your pics back up your ego   
>  **Caleb:**  Send me the number and I'll see what I can manage. 

Not much, as it had turned out. That's two months back already, and he hadn't  _forgotten_  about it so much as willingly set it aside for later review and shame. Despite real intentions to call, work had gotten busy and then he'd had so much to get done around the apartment and then one day had turned into two and two into a week and then the guilt over not calling had eaten up at him because what was he supposed to do? "So very sorry for flaking on you, are you still dtf?" It’s not his style and  _Fjord,_ he supposes, had probably moved on to bigger fish already. Caleb's not going to be the man that comes sliding in, begging for a second chance.  

He's the man that's going to sit at home and eat curly fries at two in the morning and binge TV until he falls asleep. 

Or he was, until this full-blown fucking  _disaster_  occurred. 

 

 

> **Caleb** : FUCK FUCK FUCK   
>  **Beau** : i s2g if this is some nonsense bs i will throat punch you   
>  **Caleb** : I think I have to leave the country   
>  **Caleb** : I flaked on a guy on grindr and now he's my delivery driver??   
>  **Caleb** : Can I come stay with you?   
>  **Beau** : yasha says yes, i say hell no   
>  **Beau** : also isnt this like ideal   
>  **Beau** : i mean    
>  **Beau:** is he not hot or what   
>  **Caleb** : BEAUREGARD PUT YASHA ON THE PHONE 
> 
> _added to Socially/Royally Fucked:_ _Yasha_  
> 
> **Beau** : oh my actual lords, youre useless    
>  **Beau:**  here she is   
>  **Yasha** : Is he not hot or what? :-o 

If his phone goes flying across the room, it's only because the case it's in is near indestructible. At the same moment that he realizes that there's to be no rescuing from this actual apoplectic evening, his laptop  _pings_  with an update:  _Your driver, Fjord, has received your order!_  A moment later, between blinks,  _Your_ _driver, Fjord, is on their way!_  because that's exactly his luck, this is all exactly the sort of shit that would happen to him on this, a Friday fucking evening/regrettable Saturday morning that was supposed to be relaxing! 

Downton Abbey will have to wait, he mournfully decides. He has somewhere between ten and twelve minutes to make himself unrecognizable or transfigure himself into so much furniture before Fjord arrives. 

" _Mrrp_ ," Frumpkin says, because he is a cat and is thus incapable of speech. 

"I know," he replies, careful to step over and around the feline body following him to the bedroom, " but do you want me to just open the door as is?" - and a snort, because his usual loungewear is not exactly appropriate for the situation. 

Frumpkin jumps onto the bed as Caleb passes it, rolls to show his deathtrap of a belly and gives a pitiful attempt at a purr. 

"Well," Caleb says, sliding open the closet door, "Shows what  _you_  know," as he undresses, throws his pajamas to the closest empty spot on the floor, and runs a critical eye over anything that's actually on a hanger. 

Whatever.  _Whatever_. Fjord probably doesn't even  _remember_  him. Fjord, whose profile photo was of himself in  _immaculate_  lighting, wearing a sleeveless hoodie and a smile that quirked at one edge from a scar. Fjord who'd had a candid photo of himself outside a house party: drink in one hand and a ukulele in the other, caught in the middle of a laugh but no less handsome for it. Fjord, who had gone by the username  _FordFiesta_ , in the name of all the gods. 

Caleb shimmies into a pair of skinny jeans, pulls on a navy baseball shirt that he knows makes his hair look nice. Should he put on shoes? He's in his own apartment, he's not going to wear shoes. But what if Fjord sees his feet and thinks he's slovenly, thinks he's some shoe-less Zemni heathen?  

"Frum," he says, voice breaking as his cat trots off to the front door to paw at it, "I think I am going crazy," and that is the exact moment that the doorbell rings. 

 _Shit. Shit_ _shit_ _shit_ _shit_ , and Caleb has never moved so quickly in his life. Instantly he is throwing a blanket over the ragged couch, then he is sprinting to the kitchen to close his dishwasher with all its cleaned-yet-unsorted cookware, he's using one hand to skip ahead to halfway through an episode of  _Downton Abbey_  so that it's not quite so obvious that he's been preparing for exactly this moment for the past several minutes, and with the other he's pulling on a pair of socks because  _of course he's not going to wear shoes in his own home like some sort of fucking lunatic_  and then he is standing in front of the door wondering if he has made any noise at all and whether or not it is too late to sneak out a window and hide at Beau and Yasha's place. 

"Delivery," a voice says on the other side of the door, accompanied by a gentle knock, "Arby's for, uh, Caleb?" 

 _Fuck_ _fuck_ _fuck_ _fuck_ , is there recognition in Fjord's voice? Does he even know that Caleb is  _Caleb_? Maybe he's moved on, maybe he moved on right away and has never thought about Caleb again and everything will be fine. 

"Coming," he says, pitches his voice as though he's across the apartment even though the knob is actually in his physical hand, right now, in reality. "Just a minute," he says, still frozen. 

Open the door, open the door, open the door. 

"No rush or anything," Fjord calls, "But the curly fries ain't gonna last," and that's motivation if there's any to be had. 

Cold. That's his first impression when the door opens: it's fucking winter time, of course it's freezing out as the heat of his apartment goes rushing past him. 

His very next thought? That would be  _oh_. 

"You look exactly like your photos," and he's more than half dazed, "That is almost never the case." 

Fjord's cheeks flush until they are the same green as his brow. "I, uh, I was gonna—you know, not mention it, since you, well, didn't wanna hook up." 

What? Had he said that  _out loud_? 

"I am so sorry," as he lifts one foot to let Frumpkin out, "You are very attractive and I am very anxious," and part of his brain is relegated, always, to screaming into the abyss about the injustices of his life but now that is  _most_  of his brain. "That is,"  _fuck_ _fuck_ _fuck_ , "I did not call you when I said I would and I felt badly because I thought of you—" 

"Please take the box!" 

It is a gift, surely. It is a gift from any of the seven gods he is allowed to worship, or the dozens he isn't. 

He blinks and clears his throat. It takes more than one attempt before he can say, "I'm sorry?" 

Fjord is flushed from the tips of his ears down below what his thermal shirt gives Caleb access to; all the same shade of forest green-blue. His yellow eyes do not  _quite_  glow in the flickering light of the complex hall, but it's a near thing indeed. 

"The take-out box," Fjord says, "French fries—" 

"It was supposed to be—" 

"Ah that's my fuck up, you're right, they're curly fries. Arby's, just like you ordered. They're fuckin'  _hot_ ," and Caleb had noticed that Fjord has been alternating which of his very large hands is on the box at any given moment, but had not actually internalized that knowledge until now, "I mean, it's fried food you know? Not exactly easy on the hands." 

 _Shit_ _shit_ _shit_. In his head, Caleb promises himself a slow and painful death if he does not remove his fucking foot from his mouth, but it's an empty threat. What could be worse than his current death by embarrassment? 

"I—that is, um," for the record,  _most_ of his brain is screaming into the abyss now, "Sorry. I'm just—" 

"Can I come in," Fjord asks, "I don't mean to be forward, but," but what? That's certainly a conversational segue but Fjord only stares at him expectantly, if not a bit apprehensively, and it's all Caleb can do to stand there and blink before -- 

"Oh!  _Scheiße_ , I'm so sorry, the box, here, let me," but his hands don't extend when he asks them too, just open the door further instead, "come in, please, it must be dreadfully cold out. I, ah, I don't want to keep you from work," because he's done enough -- and Caleb can hear Beau's crowing already, but godsdamnit, he owes this man at least a moment out of the wind and cold. 

Fjord steps in, scrapes his feet on the mat like a proper houseguest and sets the take-out on the entryway table near the door. Caleb's hands are on it immediately, popping it open and shoving a mass of too-hot fries into his mouth to keep his foot out of it. 

"Nice place," Fjord says, and Caleb nods even though it's not. Whether for nerves or efficiency, Fjord doesn't linger. "Look, I don't wanna go makin' assumptions,"  _fuck_ _fuck_ _fuck_ _these fries are hot_ , "but it sounds like you wanted to call and just... didn't?" 

It's fine, it's a fair question, everything is fine, this is  _literally_  why he changed into this outfit isn't it? His throat bobs with effort but he does manage to say, "Uh, yes," and Fjord is a good and merciful man to immediately pick the conversation back up. 

"I just need to be a'hunnerd percent certain. This is my last stop of the night, I ain't got anywhere else to be, so..." The way he trails off is another conversational segue, and Caleb is normally pretty good at picking up on these and doing something with them, like people do. 

Instead he wipes his greasy hand on his jeans, says the first thing that comes to mind, "You speak the way you text," and his free hand is closing and deadbolting the door but his eyes don't move from Fjord's, "I believe I may have something of a voice kink." 

He should have called. 

Fjord is crowding him against the door, hands on Caleb's hips, mouth on Caleb's mouth, and  _most_  of his brain is still screaming into the abyss but what little is left for cognitive functions is berating him because,  _holy fuck_  he should have called and done this  _sooner_. 

His shoulder blades press into the wood of his front door and he lets it take his weight, slides one of his legs between Fjord's, and if he gets  _dizzy_  at the noise Fjord makes from the friction? If he runs his tongue over the back of Fjord's teeth, over the palate of his mouth so he can swallow the groan that wells up beneath the hand he has on Fjord's chest? 

These are his good jeans. This is his hook-up shirt. All of this was part of the plan. 

His hands slip under the tight thermal and up Fjord's sides, just to hear him gasp at Caleb's ghosting fingers. Caleb's mouth moves down as his fingers travel up: he plants sloppy, open mouthed kisses in a trail from Fjord's chin to the column of his throat, pauses to nip and suck at a clavicle as Fjord tips his head back and  _pants_ in the increasing heat of the room. 

At the first brush of Caleb's fingers on his nipples, he pulls back, says, "we should," as Caleb says, " _l_ _ast door at the end_ ," and Fjord is hoisting him up so Caleb can wrap his legs around his waist, is stumbling under Caleb's weight and the added distraction of Caleb shucking his own shirt— _blessed_ , he thinks,  _thank you Jester_ , because who else would he trust to pick out his date attire—but manages to actually get them to the bed without tripping or dying.  

Fjord turns and falls back so that Caleb is atop him, and if Caleb mourns the loss of Fjord's fingers on his waist then the vision of Fjord peeling off his own shirt more than makes up for it. "You," he says, going in for Fjord's pulse like an animal for the kill, "Are a very large man." 

There's a noise in the back of Fjord's throat that Caleb would like to get to the front of it. It's something caught between a whine and a whimper as his hands tug at the top of Caleb's pants without real aim, because Caleb is successfully diverting his attention with a targeted assault on the skin of Fjord's shoulders, the space just behind his ears, a careful  _nip_  at the tip of one has Fjord's hands  _spasming_ , so careful with his claws as he  _keens_  and says, "uh  _huh_ ," and his voice is gone all breathy which sends Caleb to shivering with delight, "I get that a lot," in a voice that is so far away it's a wonder Caleb hears it at all. 

He lets himself slide down Fjord's body, grapples with shaking fingers at Fjord's fly—he is going to vibrate out of his own body if he doesn't stop to breathe, and the threat of it is entirely too tempting—and Fjord tries to prop himself up on his elbows but does not actually make it that far before Caleb gets his jeans and boxers down. It's hot in the room, it's hot  _everywhere_ , but a full body shudder goes through every inch of the half-orc splayed in front of him as his erection twitches in the open air. 

"The - my photos," Fjord says, and only that voice could draw Caleb's gaze from the  _dripping_  green cock before him. One of Fjord's hands wipes at his mouth— _claws, seven gods and all the rest take him but those_ claws _are going to kill him_ —and Caleb is giving an appreciative hum purely at the thought of them. "They weren't even that good," as if it's a question, as if he's trying to figure something out. 

One hand is not enough. Caleb wonders if Fjord has to use two as well as he sets one hand to the base of Fjord's cock and gives a leisurely stroke, bends to press a kiss along the length of it just because it's pretty and he can, "Do you know," he says, though he's sure that Fjord doesn't, "that I laid in this bed with those photos and—" 

Fjord is  _on_  him in a flash. The bulk of him is deceiving, he's quicker than he looks. "Godsdamn," Fjord says directly against the skin of Caleb's stomach, "oh shitting  _fuck_ ," and Caleb would laugh if his mouth weren't so dry as Fjord sits between his legs and sends Caleb's pants to puddle on the floor. The whine that cuts through the air is a thing of beauty as Fjord whispers with all the reverence befitting the occasion, "You're not even—you don't have," and Caleb hooks a finger under Fjord's chin, says, "Skinny jeans. Couldn't afford the underwear lines." 

"Please tell me you have lube," Fjord says as he shuts his eyes, leans his forehead against Caleb's torso. 

"Of course I do," Caleb says, as though his night were not going to be  _Downton Abbey_ and curly fries—regrettably cold and worthless by this time, probably—as though this is something he does all the time. His bedside table is not quite within reach so he has to concede some space, takes the moment to hook his socks off with his toes—he's not a Zemni  _heathen_ , he's not going to fuck a man while he's got  _socks_  on—has to turn his back as he spends a moment fumbling in the appropriate drawer. He returns to find that Fjord has managed to divest fully of his pants and underwear and that he holds a condom in one hand as he throws his wallet to the pile on the floor. 

Caleb gapes. "Did you—" he sputters, brain erupting from the molten heat of the moment into something more like static.  _Hello, abyss,_  he greets as he tumbles through an astral plane and back into his body, "did you  _plan_  for—" 

"Did I plan to fuck the Grindr guy that flaked on me but happened to order Arby's as the last delivery of my night," Fjord says in a shaky voice that betrays his confidence, "naw, but," and there's a beat of silence, "I sure as fuck hoped." 

 _Fuck_ _fuck_ _fuck_  but an entirely different vein of panic, now. The seal on the lube is unbroken so he twists the cap off, rips the slip of plastic away and pours directly onto his hand before setting the open bottle very carefully on the bedside table because  _he's not some Zemni fucking heathen, thanks_. 

Fjord gets on his back, sets either foot to the edge of the bed, eyes wild and electric, pants, "Caleb," like it's a name that means anything, " _Caleb_ ," as the first of Caleb's fingers sink without fanfare into his ass. 

"Fjord," he croons back and then mutters under his breath. 

Fjord's ears lay back flat and he grumbles, "what's that?" in voice that's all gravel and gasp. 

Caleb hooks his finger because he knows his fucking anatomy. His free hand trails up and down Fjord's inner thigh, chasing the trembling little tremors there, and he repeats, " _FordFiesta_ ," and his following laugh is distinctly  _not_  under his breath, "appropriate." 

He adds another finger because Fjord is a very large man and one is not enough—wonders if two of Fjord's own  _are_  or if he has to use more when he does this to himself. Hears a rip somewhere up near where Fjord's hands are fisted into a pillow and amends his train of thought on account of the claws. 

"Oh fuck," Fjord whispers, his hips rolling with a life of their own, "Oh shitting godsdamn," and Caleb laughs again as he scissors his fingers and  _hooks_  up towards Fjord's navel, "I can't," Fjord stutters, and his cheeks are flushed so that all of his face is the same shade of meadow-moss, "I ain't  _ever—_ not to myself," and Caleb gives an appreciative hum purely at the thought just before his third finger sends Fjord arching off the bed. 

It's hot in the room, it's sweltering, they're both sweating as Caleb pumps his three fingers into Fjord's ass with purpose and precision. It's sweltering in the room but  _inside_ of Fjord it's all slick heat and the smooth glide of the lube, and Caleb's free hand cannot afford to trace idle patterns into Fjord's thigh, is not so free as it braces against Fjord's leg and keeps the space clear for him to work and to watch as his fingers delve over and over. He can feel the individual rings of muscles as he probes deep, feeling along just because the noises Fjord makes are what Caleb's mother would call  _sinful_  but that Caleb considers to be encouragement. 

"I'll cum," Fjord begs, "all over myself if you keep on," and that's what Caleb would call  _encourageme_ _nt_ but that Fjord seems to consider a warning. One hand scrabbles near the end of the bed, offers up the tinfoil packet to the hand bracing Fjord's legs open. "Caleb," Fjord says as Caleb gives his inner thigh an affectionate pat and releases it but does not remove his fingers. He could probably fit a fourth, he realizes. He could probably— 

"Caleb, darlin', I need ya to fuck me," and he's got no defense against that sort of request. His night had been Netflix and Frumpkin, he'd been all set to fall asleep on his couch after another long day of nothing much, so what can he say besides, "yes," and, "gods," and, " _t_ _hank you_ ," as he tears the condom open and rolls it on. 

And then he pauses. 

Here's the thing the doctors never told him about having a photographic memory: the older he's gotten, the farther back his memory stretches, the more he has to sift through to find what he's looking for. 

"Fjord," he murmurs, and he nudges one leg to slide up and up and up over his shoulder, kisses every bit that goes past his mouth, "A moment, please," and Fjord groans under him, shifts his hips so that Caleb's cock rubs against his dripping asshole, but doesn't push. 

He needs a moment for the mental photo—more reliable than any cloud database—to take shape in his head. This isn't something he wants to have to sift for. 

One hand on his own dick, he says, "we did not discuss—" and Fjord's eyes are squinted closed, hands above his head and very likely ripping Caleb's pillow to shreds, but he seems aware and coherent still when he interrupts, "you're not gonna hurt me.  _Promise_ ," and rolls his hips  _harder_  against Caleb. 

"Still," Caleb retorts, rubbing just the head against Fjord's rim, fascinated by the way it makes the huge man contort and writhe, "I want to be sure that it's—that is, it's been a bit for me, but my, ah, my concern is for you—" and Fjord uses the leg hooked round Caleb's shoulder to pull him closer. 

 _Tuskless_  Caleb thinks now that he has the moment to really inspect the scar at Fjord's upper lip. It's—well, it's something for sure, but not incredibly relevant to the task at hand. Even with that knowledge, he can't stop himself from watching the way Fjord's lip quirks, crooked for the patch of scar tissue,  _tuskless_  he thinks but what he says is, "I thought of this. Your photos and this, in this bed," as Fjord surges up to kiss him. 

" _Fuck me_ ," Fjord growls and sucks Caleb's tongue into his mouth, scrapes his tongue over it and moans at the taste. 

Empire take him, but he's got no  _defense_  for that. 

Fjord's knee ends up crooked to his chest. Caleb braces himself with one hand against Fjord's hip, reaches up with the other to take Fjord's hand as he  _presses._  Three fingers means that Fjord opens for him beautifully; the worst that happens is that the hand not in Caleb rips through the fabric of something or other. 

"Oh,  _fuck_ , s- sorry about," but Caleb's isn't even in to the hilt yet, pulls back until the rim of muscles in Fjord's ass catch on the ridge of his cock, teeters there until Fjord has to turn his face and wipe away a little trail of drool against the pillow, until he loses track of his words and whatever apology he'd been considering. 

Once he's sure that Fjord's attention is where he wants it, Caleb takes the lobe of one ear between his teeth, asks: "Your neck," and if there's no question mark at the end it's because Fjord clenches every muscle south of his navel and Caleb's brain comes back from screaming into the abyss to make several new, surprised  _oh_  noises instead. He gives a shallow thrust, pulls almost all of the way back out just to hear Fjord whimper about it, just so that Fjord will ask, "my  _neck_?" and twist so that there's a verdant expanse laid bare for Caleb's perusal.  

"We did not discuss it," Caleb says, because it's important to be clear, even when it's difficult. 

Fjord's hips roll under him, taking him in and in and  _in_  even as Caleb cants his hips to keep himself  _just_  this side of sheathed. Fjord's yellow eyes do  _not_  glow in the darkness of the bedroom, but it's a near fucking thing indeed as he growls, "darlin' if you start markin' my neck you'd best to get to fuckin' me, too. It ain't gonna last much longer after that." 

Clearly, Fjord means it as a warning. 

Caleb snaps his hips forward all at once, sure in his preparations and the accompanying knowledge that Fjord can take it, feels not only the fierce rush of pride that accompanies Fjord's eyes just about going crossed but also,  _fuck_ _fuck_ _fuck_  it has been a while and he has no defense for the slick and the wet and the heat and the grip of Fjord's ass. There's an ear lobe still between his teeth; he releases it to trace his tongue up the outer shell of Fjord's ear, delights in the tremors and the little  _oh_ _oh_ _oh_ s that follow even as he sets the rhythm of his thrusts at slow, leisurely, at just this side of just enough.  

"I apologize," he says, because confidence comes easier than he does when such a handsome man is under his hands, "for not calling." He tightens the grip he has on Fjord's hand as it spasms and set his teeth to work at Fjord's throat. 

The noise Fjord makes as Caleb sets about choosing what real estate to invest in is something he'd describe as  _unholy_  if he went in for that sort of shit. As is, he nips at a patch of clean-shaven skin beneath Fjord's chin and lets his teeth trail down from there. His hand on Fjord's hip tightens as the half-orc tries to increase their tempo, but it's the nip to the side of Fjord's neck that pulls a half-sob from him, that sets him to begging, " _f_ _uck_ , Caleb,  _please_ ," and he's no longer ashamed to say that there's definitely a voice kink at play here as Fjord chants, prays, "so fucking good in me, Caleb, so fu—so fucking,  _oh all the gods above_ , Caleb fucking  _mark_  me, Caleb," and a stream of little  _ah_ _ah_ _ah_ s predicate the stutter in Caleb's rhythm.  

Even with permission—encouragement even!—he chooses the space where shoulder and neck meet, where it will be easier to hide.  He releases Fjord's hand to fumble across Fjord's belly, and the peal of noises that rip out of Fjord as Caleb's hand closes around the base of his cock could be considered  _obscene_ if it weren't for the entire rest of the scene. He laves at the spot he's chosen, lets his hips snap forward with  _force_  and sinks his teeth in. 

It's not quite a roar, the noise that Fjord makes. His hand fists in Caleb's hair, holding his face in place as he bites down hard enough to bruise, his lips and tongue furiously working to encourage exactly that. It's not quite a roar, as Caleb drops the pretense of control and the wet  _smack_  of skin-on-skin fills the room. It's not quite a roar, and it evolves from wordless into something more like benediction, into, "Caleb,  _Caleb_ , I'm gonna,  _oh gods oh gods oh damn_ ," but Caleb is sure he'll get a noise complaint regardless. When he finally drags his mouth away it's to say, "Fjord,  _please_ ," so close that Fjord swallows every word of it. 

It's not quite a roar, as his thumb smears the precum dribbling from Fjord's cock over the impossibly wide head, as he twists his wrist the way he would on himself and lets his palm slide against the thick vein of the underside. He's lost all pretense of restraint as his balls go tight and draw up against his body, as the heat in his stomach shifts from luxurious to  _urgent_. "Fjord," but this close he's not sure how it actually comes out, "Fjord,  _please_." 

There's fabric ripping somewhere and then Fjord's arms are around him, shielding and unyielding. Caleb is distantly aware of a rush of  _hot_  and  _thick_  and  _sudden_  over the hand on Fjord's cock, is momentarily sidetracked as his brain careens off into an astral plane to whisper  _oh_  as every muscle in his body focuses on getting the  _heat_  in him  _out_. 

By the time he realizes he's come, he's covered in Fjord's. 

"Dramatic," Fjord mutters, and did he say that  _out loud_? "Not  _nearly_  covered. Gimme a couple hours though," and the heat that's rising in his cheeks has nothing to do with the temperature of the room anymore. 

"A moment," he murmurs, and lets his softening dick slide from Fjord's ass. The garbage can is all the way in the bathroom, which is just as well. He knots the condom closed, rises to toss it, and finds himself in easy reach of a variety of washcloths. Well, perish the thought that anyone would ever call Caleb Widogast less than a gentleman. 

" 's cold," Fjord complains at the first pass of the washrag over his chest and belly. 

Caleb smiles though the half-orc's eyes are closed, gently reprimands, "it's easier to clean right now." 

He follows his work with a dry rag for good measure, dumps both on the floor of his room and stands next to the bed for just a beat. The great thing about a photographic memory is that this moment lasts just a beat but it will live in his head forever: the sweat still beaded on Fjord's skin, the flush that lingers in his chest and cheeks, the lazy angles of his bent knees as they list together, the sleepy way he blinks as he reaches out and takes Caleb by the wrist to pull him into the bed. 

"Your neck," Caleb says once he's encircled by Fjord's massive arms, snuggled into a warm embrace, "I was sure to—" 

"You keep that up," Fjord says, setting his chin to the crown of Caleb's head with a kiss that's all easy affection, " 'm too old for this shit," and gives a little hump against Caleb's ass for emphasis. 

He grins against the mark he made. "I've seen porn that followed this same trajectory," babbling because he craves conversation, as people do. "This was better, though." 

Rumbling in the center of Fjord's chest that shakes him. "Can you reach my pants? Needa check the time. I've got work." 

Caleb stretches, gives himself a moment to yawn—he was  _supposed_  to be binge TV-ing his insomnia into submission—and answers, "it's almost four," because he doesn't need a clock to know the time. 

Fjord rubs across the bottom part of his own face—drool, Caleb notes, thinks  _tuskless_  again—and groans as he sits up. "Would you mind terribly," and there's nothing Caleb would mind as long as a naked and very attractive man is asking post-sex, "if I help you polish off those curly fries?" 

He doesn't bother with clothes, just trots off to the microwave. As suspected, the fries are beyond saving, but to say that they've worked up an appetite would be a bit of an understatement. By the time Fjord reappears Caleb's at least got them reheated to some semblance of edible, though they're not near as tempting as the sight of Fjord in those dark jeans, as the way that Fjord's green skin is still visible through the white of his thermal. Caleb wanders over to the couch to fetch his blanket, wraps himself in it for the inevitable moment that he'll walk Fjord to the door, gives a little huff at his cellphone atop it that reads  _forty-five unread texts_. 

"What're the reviews?" Fjord asks as he munches on the curly fries, navigates the cabinets enough to find a cup and fix himself some water from the tap. 

Caleb unlocks his screen. 

 

 

> **Beau** : seriously though are you gonna invite him in?   
>  **Beau** : hey bud   
>  **Beau** : not really the time to dip on a convo caleb   
>  **Yasha** : Be safe!   
>  **Yasha** : Wear a condom or whatever   
>  **Beau** : i wanna encourage you but i also think youre probably   
>  **Beau** : gettin serial murdered or something   
>  **Yasha** : She's joking   
>  **Beau** : im joking   
>  **Yasha** : If we don't hear from you in the morning we'll send the search and rescue 

"You completely failed to serial murder me," Caleb comments, typing out a quick  _all clear_  message and sending before handing the phone off to Fjord to see, "I'm not sure your ratings can handle the hit." 

Fjord grins, taps something out for a moment and returns the phone. Caleb's contacts are open and a message has been sent: 

 

 

> **Caleb** : You gonna call this time? 

A buzzing from Fjord's pocket confirms the exchange. Caleb holds his blanket around his shoulders with one hand, lifts the other to feel the texture of the shaved sides of Fjord's head, says, "I suppose we'll just have to see." 

They don't stand there for long. Fjord does in fact polish off the last of Caleb's fries—which he was  _supposed_  to have eaten in relative peace with his cat and his couch, and what a turn his evening had taken—and Caleb entertains himself with the way that Fjord's ears twitch in response to his wandering hands, scritches his fingertips at the nape of Fjord's neck just to watch the tips of his ears go haywire. It's not long before Fjord is just leaning into his touch and they have to admit that the encounter is drawing to a close.  

"You got any allergy meds?" He doesn't even open his eyes to ask, just turns and envelopes Caleb in an embrace, mutters the question into his hair as Caleb takes a deep breath of sea salt and brine. 

"Bathroom," he says, "over the sink. It's just a curative potion." 

"I'll hafta invest," Fjord replies, letting go as if it's an ordeal, "cats," and that's all the explanation Caleb needs. 

In the moment that Fjord is off fetching the potion, Caleb's phone buzzes on the counter. 

 

 

> **Beau** : you get your dick wet or what?   
>  **Yasha** : Not since he's responsible and wore a condom   
>  **Yasha** : Right, caleb? :-| 

He hates his friends. 

"Guess I can't put it off anymore," and it's true but it doesn't stop the pang that goes through Caleb's heart. 

"I'll walk you out," he says, for lack of anything more substantial, though he's certainly not going far wrapped in a blanket. 

At the door Fjord pulls him into another embrace, and then a long and lingering kiss. Pulls down the collar of his shirt and says, "Mighty kind of you to oblige me here," as he bares the mark that Caleb left. 

"This was my first Grindr hookup," and it's blurted and rushed as he stands there turning the same color as his hair, "I would not—that is, if you are amenable—" but Fjord's laugh isn't mean or dismissive when he interrupts: "Let's start with you calling me when you're ready, alright? You ain't gotta go offering anything you're not ready for." 

Caleb frowns but nods, considering the options. "Alright," he says, "When I'm ready." 

And then Fjord is gone. He slips through a crack in the door to protect Caleb from the chill of outside, lets Frumpkin sprint past before softly shutting it behind himself. Caleb walks to the living room window, bare toes turning in against the bare floor. He has to wait a moment for Fjord to make it down the stairs and into the parking lot, but he's lucky that Fjord found guest parking nearby so Caleb can watch him get in his car and start to pull out. 

He rushes back over to the kitchen counter and to his phone. 

 

 

> _Three unread messages and two missed calls_  

Caleb unlocks the screen, finds that  _Fjord_ _T_ _'_ _ough_ 's contact is still open and hits  _call_  before he can second guess himself. There's one ring as the call connects...a second...a third. 

" _Well_ _,_ _a_ _in_ _'t_ _you just the Empire's sweetheart._ " 

The countertop is cold under his naked thighs as he hops up, fingers fidgeting with the grout between the tiles. "You said whenever I was ready," and it's softer than he means it to be, more unsure than is entirely appropriate. 

It'd been a Grindr hookup from the start. Fjord doesn't owe him anything. Caleb knows that, and yet. 

"I'll send you my work schedule - " -  _what?_  - "- figure out the when's and where's of it - " - and his brain is still on a repeat of those soft and startled  _oh_ s. "Ain't getting rid of me that easy, Caleb. Not unless you wanna," and he grins like an idiot as Frumpkin joins him on the counter. 

"Send me your schedule," Caleb agrees, because confidence comes easier than he does, "next time I'll order dinner for two." 

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd and prompted by my good buddy LoseBetter, for whom I would actually die.  
> Yell at me on tumblr at fenesvir.tumblr.com


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